The Third
by Zaedah
Summary: His devotion knows no end because it's been down all the other streets already.
1. Ring Pop Mania

**The Third**

It's not the crying that unnerves the grown man in the expensive suit. It's the squealing, a sound reminiscent of a piglet being pushed through a straw. Platitudes do not soothe such a racket, nor is an embrace a sufficient muffling barrier. And while others are actively imagining the strangulation of the noise's source, the federal agent, unarmed and rapidly regretful, is ardently envisioning a singles-only beach where the closest thing to a pampered toddler is a rich woman's poodle.

Maybe that's what the kid needs... a pet.

Because nothing else is working to calm the screeching eighteen month old. Books have been read, highlighted and underlined and every suggestion has been faithfully employed. Here in this line. At this grocery store. At this ungodly hour among the staring, glaring throngs who knew better than to bring a cranky child for what Tony's wife assured him would be a quick trip for a few things. The woman lies potently.

The list had begun as a three-item dash, which had grown to five before the boy had been strapped into the car seat, frighteningly awake and eager for a midnight outing. Tony hadn't minded the mini-entourage, as time alone with his boy is a sparse and precious thing. But a subsequent text message arrived upon parking, morphing five purchases into six. Ziva may not know Columbo, but she's got his 'just one more thing' routine down to a rather deliberate art.

Navigating narrow passageways with a cart shaped like an unruly fire truck had been an interesting reenactment of defensive driving class. Those random displays of sale items that have little to do with the aisle's stated purpose, like bags of Ring Pops in front of the pasta shelves, caused no end of difficulty. Especially when The Third decided he must immediately possess the cavity-vowing, compact sugar jewelry. Right. Now.

The mission has come within one more 'I wan'it' of being aborted.

At present, the fire truck and its vocal occupant take up the full width of line four, which has put candy bars of every variation within chubby-fingered reach. The previously noted squealing, summoned from the depths of a denied child's soul, acquires a glass-shattering pitch based on the softly delivered,

"No."

"I wan'it!"

Which is made slightly more garbled by the fact that the boy has wedged an unopened Chunky bar into the perpetually damp cavern of his mouth. Which does silence the squeal momentarily. It's replaced by the kind of gasping growl that cats perform as a mouse tries to escape its clenching jaws.

It would be nice, Tony thinks as he lifts the squirming body out of the truck and knocks several chocolatey rectangles to the ground, if Ziva could bear witness to the exorcism of sound when the candy bar is pried from his son's grip. Even the developing brain knows better than to carry on in her presence. A strand of slobber runs like pizza cheese from pouting lips to the packaging. And the piglet imitation resumes. Criminals of every level have attempted to stare the agent down with no success, but the tired mothers and listless teenagers have met their quota of toddler tantrums for this hour and their eyes now penetrate Tony's skull in that subtle, imposed-upon way that strangers have.

There is a sensation that lives next door to fear that stumbles over the fence to borrow some sugar. Tony chokes down the sensation against the vivid image of a half-dead and wholly annoyed flash mob. Only Ziva possesses the skill to defeat the masses with such limited weaponry; scattered candy bars and a portable slobber factory.

There's a beep in his pocket. A shift of the child to the other hip and he fumbles with the phone to retrieve a message that adds one more vital product to Ziva's list. Which she only just remembers. And will have to go without.

Executive decision of a frustrated man.

On the ride home, the snot-ridden Anthony DiNozzo III falls asleep, face set in angelic configuration with a mutilated Chunky bar dangling from a loose grip. He remains in slumber as he's carried into the apartment and laid into bed. In the kitchen, his mother unpacks the plunder, looking as refreshed as she did three years ago, when she'd promised forever to a man who couldn't swallow the heart soaring into his throat. Her current smile makes the damage to his ear drums worthwhile. Said smile tumbles into a frown as she scans the register tape.

"I did not have candy on the list."

Tony pulls out the Chunky bar, an unopened mess of drool that couldn't maintain its shape, and relocates it to the trash. And then settles a new ring on her finger, a huge affair that dwarfs her engagement stone. For a moment, Ziva sucks on the sugary gem and Tony's beginning to wonder if what The Third really needs is a sibling.

* * *

><p><em>Hope you enjoyed the first installment!<em>


	2. Gingerbread Execution

**The Third**

**2**

Bombs are less complicated.

This is the conclusion any sane person will reach when faced with such a nefarious latticework of obstacles. The wires, cables and ties are designated to halt any attempt to gain entry and retrieve the crucial object. There are screw in crevices that no mortal tool can reach and plastic bindings that defy the sharpest cutters.

This calls for a professional. Unfortunately, she's busy channeling Betty Crocker.

Meanwhile, The Third's face is crumbling into what will soon be a colossal event. The first seconds of Pompeii's destruction looked strikingly like the boy's expression. Since there exists sparse patience in either parent's DNA code, what chance did their offspring have?

The calendar hangs from its peg with an innocent, hand-drawn tree from the Ziva Crayon Studio marking the date, but the appropriate designation would be D-Day. With one hand firmly gripping the hostage toy and the other struggling to pry the packaging away, Tony tucks his curses under his breath and offers nothing but hope to the watching lad. Light brown eyes take in the scene with ever increasing skepticism. Learned that one from mom.

It's a difficult blow to pride, condemnation by a judge in feety pajamas.

None of their friends have children, which explains the stunning lack of warning about moments such as this. Christmas with a toddler. Unwrap the present and undo the father.

But yesterday the boss had delivered a slap to Tony's shoulder, practically a hug on the Gibbs Scale of Affection and it makes sense now. It had been a gestural wish of luck and a deposit of sympathy. Gibbs has experienced this day, when a child looks to the male role model with anticipation of receiving the shiny new toy from the clutches of a complex contraption. The child neither understands nor cares what sort of procedure is involved with freeing said toy from its box, inserts and numerous booby-traps.

It's a Hasbro landmine.

"I would have completed the task fifteen minutes ago," Ziva observes, hands coated in flour from a fit of baking that does not assuage her lethal stare. Dangerous with a gun. Deadlier with a rolling pin. She'd already chopped the head off a gingerbread man that refused to lift from the tray. Foreshadowing Tony's fate should he disappoint the child.

"You'd have incinerated the roboty destructo thing to get to it."

"And you would have been in charge of reassembling the bits." A delegation diplomat, his loving bride. "Although I am no longer certain of your glue handling skills."

Witness the large Mickey Mouse ornament which dangles from the tree limb, formerly of a round nature that now resembles Picasso's take on a sphere. It had met the ground last night in Tony's haste to have his present under the tree. There is every evidence that gluing circular objects is not Tony's strong suit, but in his defense, they hadn't found several missing shards until later. They'd been stuck to Ziva's back.

"I'm almost done, buddy. Ask Ima to give you a cookie to tide you over."

"Bribing with sugar?"

The tsk sound, genetically woven into every mother, fails to condemn. Because her first attempt at crafting holiday fare sits before her grateful child, who painstakingly selects the desired shape like a sniper choosing a rifle and then devours it before Ziva can settle his butt into a chair.

Every chew eats away at Tony's available time.

The last remnant of cookie is swallowed and with it, Tony's final hope to avoid a bundle of flailing impatience. As the countdown dwindles to zero, delayed only by a quick sippy cup consultation, a desperate yank is given and the robot leaps from its confines. With a painfully askew head. And minus one arm. But certainly whole enough for the delight of a clapping toddler. Who fails to notice, in his youthful rapture, that his mechanical menace comes complete with a realistic blood smear.

Tony sucks on his index finger while his boy pretends the robot can fly. No one will mention that wings D and F have not yet been inserted into slots E and G. The flight assists remain trapped in the shredded package and aren't likely to escape until tomorrow. Or ever. Ziva follows her congratulatory kiss on the cheek with a slap to the head. Three syllables are mumbled over her retreating shoulder, sounding suspiciously like _big baby_.

But as he watches the Christmas movie scene unfold, momma and son sprinkling colored sugar on fresh cookies in a warm kitchen, Tony feels neither big nor babyish. He feels small, in a 'not the priority, not the pinnacle, not the point' sort of way. This must be that fabled sensation called _humble_.

And while the title Father has struck him sideways many times over the last two years, he's rarely felt so much like a daddy.


	3. Grand Canyon

**The Third**

**3**

It's always an abandoned warehouse with pallets stacked to the ceiling and enough dust to cultivate a medical epidemic. Apparently the bored drug dealer has seen the same movies as Tony and is feels compelled to set the stage accordingly. A stand-off with what equates to a frustrated actor pretending to be a gun runner is no time to discuss this. But they do, since unresolved matters kill relationships. And it's not like the guy's a good shot anyway.

"You don't think I should be upset about this?" The perp's shot clangs off a nearly pipe, subtracting gravitas from Tony's point.

"I do not think one event," duck, "should inform your opinion," lean, "of her abilities."

Another shot sails wide left, which Tony returns absently. "You should be angry. She ought to be missing a finger or something."

"Can we do this later?"

"I'm just suggesting a less passive way of protecting our mini-us."

"I only return violence to those who warrant it," Ziva tosses over her shoulder, though it fails to impress the shooter, a man of apparently unlimited bullets. He's squeezing them off one at a time, at random, seemingly uninterested in actually aiming. It's like a dress rehearsal for a shoot out.

"I can't believe your ninja blood's not screaming for vengeance."

Barest sunlight peeks in on the scene through windows that local teens must aim baseballs at. And in this dimness, Tony doesn't need to see her eye roll. It produces a grinding sound.

"You make a volcano out of moleskin."

"Mountain out of a..." Lucky shot, Tony decides as he peers at the torn fabric of his coat sleeve. Had his bicep been an inch thicker, he'd have been very nearly mortally wounded. Trading work out time for playtime has paid off. Yet another way he's been saved by The Third.

Which reminds him...

"Kid's got a busted lip and you want to give the teacher an apple?"

"Her fruit intake is not my concern. And it is only a scratch," Ziva says as she unloads another round. "They were being children. Is that not what you say when he hurts someone else's child?"

Tony doesn't let his immediate thought, that last week's toddler cage match was different, enter the verbal atmosphere. Partially because unfriendly bullets are slowly achieving a grasp on center but mostly because he knows how it sounds. True, the fault line on the kid's lip isn't quite the Grand Canyon, but he's within his fatherly right to play favorites. It's in the handbook somewhere.

Ziva's got the same manual, Mom Edition, so her nonchalant approach to the inflicted injury makes no sense. Nor does the perp's sudden silence.

"Did we hit him?" His partner asks, turning her head to gain audible traction on the lack of noise.

"Speaking of hit, you're really okay with some kid striking yours?"

"A _scratch_," Ziva spits out into the dust-laden void. "Get over it."

Tony's not the only one dredging up what is apparently old news. "Said I didn't belong, wouldn't let me in their club," the suspect announces, voice echoing in what he probably thinks is dramatic fashion. It actually sounds sickly. "Not good enough. Coulda been the best they ever saw."

Tilting her head, Ziva's posture relaxes a fraction. "Club? Should he not mean gang?"

"Just what we need," Tony sighs. "Lonely-guy soliloquy."

Fortunately, she doesn't mention that a tipsy Tony is prone to the same ailment. Instead, she inches closer to the man who now shuffles poetically about the cruelty of a world that saved him no place in the coveted swim club.

"Didn't know what they had. Shoulda told'um to their face. Been all confrontational like in the movies. Thrown it down on their damned Speedos."

"No concept of pronouns," Ziva muses as she stalks through the rows of pallets.

But Tony's trying to catch that elusive strand of Eureka floating just north of his brain. And when it brushes his reaching fingertips to coalesce into a notion, his huff nearly blows their progress toward the monologuist.

"You told it to her face, didn't you," he accuses the woman trying to hush him. "You were all confrontation and threw down."

Spinning as silently as one can on a sawdust floor, Ziva faces Tony with one finger on her lips while the other caresses the trigger. This stand-off must end, if for no other reason than Tony needs confirmation, a need that requires vocalization that won't get them killed. And so he tosses aside whatever game plan they haven't bothered to formulate and lays the pacing man out in a flying tackle. Slapping on the cuffs to the soundtrack of his partner chewing silence, Tony hauls the man to his feet.

"Going to jail, my friend. But thanks for solving one mystery for me."

Out in the parking lot, Ziva is trying to open a car door that Tony will not unlock until she answers his inquiry. Or steals the keys, which he wouldn't put past her.

"So," he begins, leaning on the driver's side door and tossing the key ring in the air. It's cold, frigid actually, but he wants to watch truth frost its way out of her mouth. "You already talked to the teacher, didn't you?"

"I may have mentioned my notice of his cut."

"That little, tiny, insignificant mark on his lip that I shouldn't be at all upset about?"

She's working very hard not to fidget. "I sought only the circumstance."

"And her answer?"

"Was inconclusive."

"So you interrogated?"

"I..." a shrug, innocently unconcerned and possibly borrowed from every suspect ever caught in a lie. "Asked for more detail. And perhaps indicated the unacceptability of her methods of observation."

"You _indicated_?"

"I indicated," she repeats. "Strongly." Sympathy and pride produce an unlocked door.

Daycare is a tricky business. One leaves a child in the hands of strangers on the basis that a degree in criminal surveillance is not required for those under reading age. That The Third is not permanently damaged and has, in fact, has left his mark on others is a consideration Tony cannot make just yet. He's new at this. So is Ziva.

Which is why she doesn't say a word when Tony holds his boy a little tighter, gives him an extra kiss goodnight, lets him sleep with a second teddy bear. Fuzzy sentinels guarding the mattress.

Later, Tony and Ziva will get all confrontational and throw down. In all the right ways.

* * *

><p><em>Lovehate? Continue/Kill it? All opinions welcome._


	4. Holy Soup

**The Third**

**4**

The National Institutes of Health would shut the place down, so goes the repeated opinion of one Timothy 'told-you-not-to-reproduce' McGee. The world's most active breeding ground for germs is currently brewing in the NCIS bullpen. Attempt to swab any surface and the cotton tip will try to save itself by defecting from its stick. It makes recycled air seem like a terrorist plot.

Tony would participate in the debate over the multiplying contamination but it would require lifting his head from the desk. And that's not happening. The math is unfortunate; two days of coddling one stricken child equals three sick individuals. If McSanitizer thinks the office is bad, he should step inside the DiNozzo household, an infested domicile that vats of bleach couldn't sterilize. Public safety would be best served by arson.

There's no glare fierce enough to frighten microscopic organisms. Not even Ziva's.

Ever practical, Ziva had accepted her offspring's initial sneeze with a tissue and detailed instructions about proper expelling techniques. Getting the tot to cover his mouth prior to projectile germ release has proven quite a trick; the boy possesses timing made famous by the Keystone Kops. The ravenous appetite had begun to wane and though Tony considers himself a licensed food pilot, the spoon-turned-airplane deception failed. There was more nutrition in the toddler's dark hair than in his stomach.

Being a novice jedi of the Parental Force, Tony hadn't been prepared for his son's insistence on daddy handling every need and whim personally. Very Special Agent. Accept no substitute. Affront doesn't begin to describe Ziva's reception of second place. She'd been relegated to back up which, before this morning, had been convenient to her ongoing health. Because she'd managed to dodge the worst of the germatic overflow. In truth, Tony has enjoyed the bolster to his paternal pride; being sought out, chosen, preferred. And The Third, not a child to suffer such obstacles as _no_ and _wait_ and _stop_, has turned out to be a fairly congenial patient. And certainly not opposed to liberal sharing.

The ninja nurse quickly labeled the deteriorating Tony as cooperative as frozen molasses.

Having never missed a day of work that didn't involve a gunshot wound or the plague, Tony now sniffles quietly and prays to a sporadically merciful God that wellness is the main ingredient of the chicken noodle soup he's anticipating. Abby, that sainted soul, will be here soon, treading as gently as platformed Frankenstein boots allow. The sisters have taken pity on the ill and prepared a batch of holy healing, blessed by the monsignor and sealed with all the cuddly warmth that a hardened bowling team can produce.

Ziva, whose adorable nose has taken on the visual qualities of raw steak, smells the arrival of non-threatening sustenance before the bearer is actually seen.

"Id cumig," is the nearest point on Ziva's enunciation map, so clogged as to approach cartoonish. But it's more informative than Tony's answer, a cross between an audible shrug and gestural profanity.

As soothing as soup promises to be, raising the cinder block between his ears calls for a crane. The history of paperwork is resplendent with fits of progress balanced by bouts of procrastination. Today the mark of progress is measured by how many sheets of paper will stick to Tony's cheek when he levers off the stack. At home a darling child, accessorized with shimmering snot and coughing like a goose on helium, bides his time until his beloved parents return to cater to his requests for hugs, tucking in, stuffed animals and the simple, generic _more_. It will take power, perseverance and patience, three P's that Tony couldn't locate with McGee's elite tracking software. And so the soup is downed gingerly, like one swallowing his first sword, in the hope that granules of strength have sunk to the bottom of the bowl.

His for the slurping if he can. Just. Hold. It. Down.

Some tiny voice, a Tinkerbell in his fever-demented brain, encourages him to let the lad suck it up. Gotta toughen him up, the voice says. Show him that the world is not an on-call maitre d'. Eventually, warm broth drowns the voice, which Tony recognizes in a moment of noodle clarity as his father's. No one pampered young Tony Jr. when illness struck. DiNozzo Sr. never abandoned the board room for boarding school to stroke his son's damp forehead and read him stories. The absence of coddling hadn't made Tony stronger, just lonelier. And such lack is one he will not inflict on his boy.

So, no grains of physical fortitude in the meal, it seems. But apparently soup from the ladle of nuns comes with the topping of a pep talk. It'll have to do. Because The Third will be watching out the window for his rescuer to come. And neither sniff nor sneeze, fatigue nor fever will keep The Second from his appointed rounds.


	5. Dogs and Dishes

**The Third**

**5**

Marriage is a type of corporate merger between two entities with occasionally varying goals. Tony and Ziva, in the former's opinion, represent two chairmen who admire each other's portfolios but will haggle fiercely over business practices. The amalgamation of their lives into cohesion had been a bit like integrating the molecules of a brick wall with those of a silk scarf.

The result is neither steady nor wears well. And yet... it stands.

Proof: the small boy tossing plastic cars into the air, less for the fleeting joy of flight than the eventual delight of the crash. He's investigating gravity. The Third serves as a symbol that a pair of contradictions can create one significant victory for mankind – although his contributions to humanity will have to wait until after puberty. Or at least potty training, which is going about as well as an orange learning to squeeze itself. They've woven stubbornness into the fabric of the boy and are currently trying to unravel the strands into something like cooperation.

Ziva has been quite taken with the idea that pride can motivate anyone, even those for whom the button-in-hole maneuver is still challenging. And so, over a sink brimming with lasagna dishes, her soapy hands resurrect the most heavily trending conversation of their week.

"If we focus on the big boy angle," she reasons, "he will want to get it right."

In contrast, tonight's designated plate dryer subscribes to a different theory based on a personal understanding of lazy male genes. "I'm telling you, praise has a proven track record."

"Yes," Ziva says. "With dogs."

"We should get one, by the way." And then he nearly drops the gravy boat because those words hadn't actually completed the rigors of the thought sequence prior to launch.

Confusion pulls several of her features away from her skull. "Why, exactly?"

"Umm, protection?"

Lassie-like protection with bigger teeth and fiercer claws. The kind that is named Spike and generates such a vicious vibe that perps sense it from two blocks away. A force field of depraved fiendishness suitable to guard his boy.

Ziva's imagination extends only to torturing her partner. "You find two armed federal agents inadequate?"

Since logic slips out the back door without giving notice, Tony's trained argument muscle will heft the old favorite; spit out her own words. "It'll teach him responsibility. Big boy and all that."

"Can we teach the child to use the plumbing to eliminate before making him bag a beast's errant poo?"

The grin of his inner ten year old picks the lock and springs free. _I made her say poo_.

"Maybe we should ply him with treats." Which earns a flick of bubble-coated fingers at his face.

"I will not bribe our child into obesity." Though her harsh tone arrives via rundown subway, it enjoys the ride. "He will learn through application of reason. Being a child does not inhibit his ability to grasp fundamentals."

No, but being _his_ child might. Given the smirk she's directing to the grease being flogged from a pan, Ziva's left that part of the sentence unspoken but no less implied.

Briskly swiping the water drops from the flatware, Tony tosses a glance to the boy who has taken to slamming a mid-sized sedan – Ziva's idea of a sensible purchase does not include miniature Mustangs – into the side of Tony's foot. Shoes are terribly handy, thick-soled protectors that they are, which makes their current location by the front door inconvenient. But the repetitive meeting of molded plastic and tender flesh gives way to The Third's recollection that he does, in fact, have two hands, albeit plump and fairly unsynchronized. The sedan takes on a roadster, a vehicle not registered in Ziva's safe automobile category, in head-to-head combat. The resulting staccato of smash reminds Tony to invest in the kid's future as a drummer.

And that quickly, the contents of the room run off to the circus, leaving Tony standing in something of a vortex.

His boy plays, his lover moves just behind him, but there's a tightness in his chest that dulls the sounds. And he's not aware that he's staring at blatant nothing until a welcome something comes into focus. Her arms have circled his waist, dark head blocking his view of their offspring.

"He passed his tests." Ziva's words are a whisper, as if Anthony III might overhear dreaded 'adult speak.'

And Tony's swallowing hard because he knows that she knows and she should open a storefront with that kind of mind-reading. "I was just...I was..." There's an end to that somewhere, but it has lost its way to his tongue.

"You were Thinking."

It deserves the capital she lends it because it's the kind of thinking that feeds his insomnia. Much of the weekend had been enveloped by irrational fear born of a dropped jar. Yesterday, Tony's skeleton had tried to forfeit his body when the bang of impact occurred but his son, the effort of ages and the product of surprise, hadn't flinched. Hadn't reacted in any way. And the specialist being closed until Monday had given Tony's anxiety ample time to groom itself into well-dressed chaos. Deafness, dissociative disorder, autism, every conceivable parental worry had sprung out of a child's moment of oblivion.

Tony's fallen into a similar oblivion, broken only by a hand at his jaw and a woman trying not to be impatient in the midst of his trance. After all, he'd halted the one task she'd assigned tonight. Blinking, Tony wipes already dry hands on the damp towel and sighs.

"I know." It's an apology wrapped in an excuse, which she accepts by storing her concern on a shelf.

"Just like you know you're actually afraid of dogs?"

"Just like you know we actually _have_ a dishwasher?"

His towel is stolen and she returns most of her attention to the remaining dishes. "Would not be as much fun."

Leaning down, Tony scoops up the waiting toddler, armor against being pressed back into service as a dryer. He'd never suggest that the cook should be exempt from cleaning because there are sharp knifes within reach.

"Need to work on your mom's definition of fun, kid."

"Fuhn! Fuhn! Fuuuhn!"

Having the syllable screeched into one ear at a decibel that promises a future featuring hearing aids doesn't bother Tony tonight. Being heard is being assured. Which is more than any fanged, snarling guard can offer.

Stepping carefully over the wreckage of cars left strewn on the kitchen floor, father and son retire to the view out of a living room window. The Third has enough sensibility, big boy and all that, to tap the remaining car in his hand very gently on the glass, seeming to appreciate the light sound it makes. Snow is beginning to coat the roads now, headlights bouncing off the glittering surface. It'll either be beautiful tomorrow or a bundle of tangled, yellowed stuff. Either way, there'll be shoveling and scraping and working with the dead.

The vista amends his earlier analogy for their lives. Life is a map, however fatally crinkled from occasional careless folding. Detours on their freeway to happiness had been so familiar, they'd adopted the highway, built a home on the off-ramp and pick up the inevitable litter once a month.

Together, as one body with eight sporadically coordinated but still efficient limbs.


	6. Toilet Paper

**The Third**

**6**

Actually, there are other DiNozzo's in the world who have the great joy of not being related to Tony's clan. One, a respectable judge, had kind parents and thus was christened John. Tony would have tarred, though possibly not feathered, a nunnery to get that name. Or any variation of William, Robert or Charles. Was Bob too much to hope for?

What a kid saddled with his father's name needs is a strong nickname. Sadly, the only nickname he'd managed to secure in his culmination of years is Junior, which is not, in fact, a nickname but a legal statement of his slot in the Anthony DiNozzo chain.

So the compulsion to bestow nicknames on the third male to be burdened with the name is not truly his fault. His spouse, it should be noted, does not approve.

It started during the swaddling phase, when all of the accessories of babyhood were softer than God's beard. Angels produce awesome conditioner, he suspects, and they must have mass marketed the formula in the form of the fabled baby blanket scent. The kind with cherub-like giraffes and smiling lions. Holding this powdered bundle of squish, Tony had engaged in utter fatherly nonsense. Out had come a mangled version of no lullaby ever written and the moniker Cotton Ball.

Ziva had hoped this was merely a new papa lacking sleep.

But the progression began to worry her. Over the following months, a mostly rational man had spewed a host of household items at his son, including but not limited to: Toaster Oven, Peanut Brittle, Shampoo Rack and, to her thorough disdain, Marshmallow Fluff. But she began seeking accomplices to Tony's impending harm when a late night of snot-laden wailing had evoked the admittedly unfortunate Toilet Paper.

Which explains why presently he sits in the bullpen, concentrating on tracing calls in a way that suggests it's a ruse he'd like to continue until Armageddon.

"Preschool is not far," Ziva reminds him. "If it was not for me, our son would not know his name."

Tim's smirk is not conducive to the present arrangement of his face. "Or think it's Duct Tape."

"This is a discussion for married folks, McSingle. Were you invited?"

"Proximity equals right." Which is no sort of campaign slogan.

Unfriendly is the squint Tony directs. "Are your ears ringing? It's my fist calling."

"Come on, Tony," McGee says, "Kindergarten will be so entertaining."

The one called ninja and the perpetual probie mutter amongst themselves, leaving the un-nicknamed to perform the actual work of criminal justice. What he won't explain is that calling out "hey, Cheese Curl," is saying I love you in a manner that holds no embarrassment in the middle of the mall. Besides, who wouldn't want to be labeled after a processed wonder? Or Pet Rock. Or Fountain Pen. Or Lint Ball. Or Tony's favorite standby, Wet Loofah.

"Is it always two words?"

The pencil shouldn't be launched at a federal agent, regardless of geek quotient, but the pointy lead twists toward a spot to the left of the ugly tie, the head above still speaking despite the threatening yellow number 2.

"So is that old lady still watching the baby?"

Tony bristles and the pencil's trajectory is locked in. "Toddler," he corrects as though the distinction is equivalent to world peace and unlimited pizza.

"The difference being?"

"He can sing the entire opening verse of Elmo's World. And he's potty trained." Witness the pride of a first-time dad with diaper burn-out.

"No," Ziva clarifies, "he knows the _location_ but not the _function_."

The shrug is meant to excuse any being caught failing the Ziva Standard. "He's getting there."

"At the pace of dead snails."

It is a known fact that contradicting Ziva is only safe in comparison to scuba diving in a volcano. Common criminals and heads of state own manuals on Agent David comprising of one page within the bulletproof binder. That page offers advise that Tony is only now perfecting; shut up and stand clear.

In the end, it's their differing opinions and tactics with respect to the boy that ensures his future personality quirks will be well-rounded and possibly devastating. But the boy wouldn't be theirs without a few distinguishing traits that both endear and enrage. Some might cite this as evidence that certain sets of DNA ought not be mixed. But Tony and Ziva exist in the kind of vacuum that blocks out sage wisdom, leaving only the old trial and error to sustain their endeavors. He'd like to think that the T and E scale is lighter on the failure side.

Certainly, if success is measured in nicknames, his child will make up for his own personal lack. And there's a million other places Tony hopes to apply that truth. Which is why he'll go home tonight and scoop up a squirming offspring who smells like Ziva's potty plan gone awry, trusting that the thumb-sucking toddler will grasp in soggy fingers the hidden depths behind Shaving Cream.


	7. Plastique Pachyderms

**The Third 7**

Retirement, as it turns out, is nothing like the brochure.

The glossy ads for the older set riding horses assumes one has avoided arthritic tendencies and the beaming folks playing golf presume one can tolerate such a boring pastime. Apparently, true retirement involves copious amounts of macrame and, God forgive humanity, knitting. There is only so much culture one being can absorb, only so many gambling losses one can allow and only so many times one can enjoy invoking the senior discount. Her hands shake too much for photography, her artistic endeavors are laughable and her new interest in bicycling died with the first flat tire five miles from home.

It's enough to make an old woman forsake her AARP membership and rebel. So she considered returning to work.

The benefit of marrying a federal agency leader is the instant credibility. Trust came with the name. Her late husband was an old-fashioned fellow and preferred his wife stay home to raise children that never came. Eventually, when members of his staff needed a babysitter, she was volunteered somewhat against her will. For the barren, such reminders are hardly welcome. But the little ones… Oh, how they won her over. And her role in this world was set. Picnics, museums and parks filled the days until the relentless calendar took its toll on her knees and back.

The last borrowed child entered adulthood, the husband entered the ground and Evelyn Taylor's career ended with a replacement knee and a replacement life. It's not one she approved of, planned for or prefers to accept. Which explains why, when the tentative request reached her ear, she agreed to a meeting with all the reluctance she could fake.

Showing her home to the couple generated the kind of meticulous inspection known only to nuclear facilities and drug dealers. Attention was paid to the balcony, chimney and basement, critical eyes passing along corners and crevices as though poisonous spiders might be bred in the non-existent cobwebs. With these two, her husband's legacy brokered no automatic trust and thus Evelyn was treated to differing interrogation styles. The husband approached her as one accustomed to charming people into divulging where they've stashed the bodies. The woman, who he labeled his wife as though still testing that theory, approached Evelyn like a lion tamer who needed no whip. The glare was meant to achieve all manner of cooperation. Ziva moved about the house, examining the most mundane knickknack in apparent expectation of explosives. That the underside of the elephant figurines lacked C4 appeared to be a disappointment.

Used to the ways and whims of the heavily armed, Evelyn approached them as one being sought for a colossal favor. Her references speak for themselves, after all, and likely did at length. By the conclusion of the visit, she'd secured the end of her loathsome retirement. The event called for wine and chocolate. Reality called for Advil and Aspercreme.

Anthony III came to her as a thumb-sucking investigator. Every inch of her abode has been touched, sniffed and occasionally licked. A tactile child and moreover a vocal one. Lungs like his haven't attempted to shake the plaster off the walls for decades. Unique, this production of two mistrusting folks who had, she learned later, declined twelve recommended sitters before finding her. Ant, her particular nickname for the boy, made himself immediately at home, claiming her recliner for his own and staring with fascination at the collection of pachyderms his new friend kept just out of reach. Eager to go anywhere Miss Evy saw fit, Ant picked up the idea of cooperation quickly.

Today, for instance, the short and the old face the enormous doors of a dinosaur museum with fairly equal anticipation. Bones were hefted, skins were caressed with fingers as clean as she could keep them. Tough task with a male toddler whose digits can collect stickiness where no stickiness exists. Lollipops are thereby forbidden, as are most processed foods. This gem of a meal plan is what won over that last bit of Ziva's hesitance. Tony had been far easier, heart handed over with a simple dish of lasagna to take home the first week. Not remotely offensive to his honed Italian taste buds, despite its organic and vegetarian origins. Mostly because she failed to mention the health quotient in the offering.

Ten years ago the revelation arrived that, were she a cow, she'd have been a burger by now. Thus meat made a hasty retreat from her menu. It should be noted that the lad doesn't mind. As long as the nuggets are nugget-shaped, all is well in his playground-laden world.

She's too old for voluntary anxiety.

It's one of the notions that had made retirement look so good. One of her previous children lost their parent to a London car bomb, another fell to a sniper in South Africa. Years piled on her bones and the concern for what might have been strangers had they not procreated made the journey harder. Know the kid, know the kin. And though better knowledge may berate her each morning, Evelyn sits down with her worry every time Tony and Ziva depart from her driveway. They keep the world safe. She keeps the whole of theirs safe.

It seems like a bit of fate's dandruff flakes off into their lives on occasion. Without hearing the tale, Evelyn senses that the genesis of their union bore no resemblance to romance novels. There was surely more work and tears involved. This boy, the one with the gooey hands and sporadically-toothed smile, is the culmination of difficult days and tense nights made brighter with a confession or two that no being on earth was likely privy to. They say little of the past and nothing of the preceding hours. All of creation stays outside the door when they take hold of their child.

And though many couples have passed through her entrance, none have that intangible destiny Evelyn spies at the corners of their lives. Ant is lucky to have dropped into the center of this love story.

And she'll make sure he knows it.


	8. Film Noir

**Not pleased with this chapter, but then it is the SECOND time I've written it. Stupid document-eating netbook. Many thanks to KYTivafan for making sure I didn't leave important chunks of grammar out since this was reconstructed entirely out of order!  
><strong>

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><p><strong>The Third<strong>

**8**

In the foggy forestry of Webster, sprouting between saccular and sadleria, blooms the definition of sacrifice. To the detriment of parched readers everywhere, there does not wait a picture of Ziva's hips. It's an oversight approaching sin on the part of the publishers and wars have been known to start for less than this pictorial affront. To make up for this lack, his fingers have volunteered to map out that particular feature and have noted with pleasure the change in that childbirth hath wrought; width. Ziva's figure, in her opinion, has been sacrificed to bring forth life. Sadly, she has begun seeing this alteration as a defect and has signed up for kickboxing classes with the intention of depriving Tony of his new addiction.

Which qualifies as his sacrifice. Along with space. And sleep. And silence.

While cases are no less challenging and stake-outs no less tedious, unwinding time has taken a distinct turn for the childish. Film noir is no longer on the evening bill, an arrangement he hadn't quite foreseen. The Third Man is run over by talking vehicles while The Maltese Falcon loses to a sniper called Nemo. Black and white generates no appreciation in eyes already trained by garish Disney. It seems that the only way classic cinema can capture The Third's attention is for Hitchcock to produce a sparkly sippy cup.

And speaking of drinks, with the kid's first birthday came their decision that no more alcohol shall cross their threshold. And by _their decision_, he means Ziva's, who can proclaim like an angry monarch when the mood takes her.

Because she's met his tendencies and seeks to pummel them.

It's his fault for letting someone get to know him that thoroughly. But it's his fortune that the one who took on the thankless task is the one person who might forgive him for what they learn. Still, nothing about the kid compels Tony to drown in Daniels. There's too much joy in this positional shift. Someone depends on him, a fact which requires sobriety and, in its place, a host of juices made of fruits he'd previously believed extinct. Like pomegranate. He couldn't pick that one out of a line-up. Of course, the boy prefers grape, if for no other reason than its superior staining properties. And Anthony makes it a daily point to sprinkle their world in purple liquid.

Grownups are no less clumsy. Behold exhibit A.

"Really?" The senior agent's voice shouldn't hit that note. "We've been on the road for two minutes, McSpill."

The light gray suit will never recover from the coffee dripping from a plastic lid that wasn't affixed correctly. One hand brushes it off while the other waves off the spectator.

"Just one of those things," Tim mutters.

Ziva's nod would only be compassionate were the smirk not attached. She's driving to the crime scene, a compromise made easier by her newly acquired driving style. Checking her rear view mirror, she catches a wet man's eyes.

"Nervous fingers today, McGee?"

"No. Nothing's wrong. S'all good. No big deal. Stuff happens. So what's the deal with our dead guy?"

"Tactful use of defense followed by misdirection," Tony acknowledges. "Ex-marine nails his resume to the door of an abandoned strip club, then sets it and himself on fire. And may I be the first to say a sympathetic ouch.""

The oddly speed-obedient Ziva merges without violent language. "And you call _your_ day unfortunate?"

"He had a bad interview," McGee emphasizes, "and I have vengeful coffee."

The slap, perched on Tony's fingertips, is halted only by distance to the head. "He's dead and you're a goffo."

The scowl deepens. "I'm not in the mood for Italian put-downs."

Tony considers his teammate carefully, taking an investigator's inventory of the misery before him. Slumped shoulders, dour expression, fidgeting legs, mechanical wiping of coffee-tinted pants already dry.

Crap, probie's in love.

There can be no doubt as to the particular fish in his narrow sea. But he's hiding the sparkly lure admirably through every male's favorite device; pointed oblivion.

A guilty throat is cleared. "So, what made the guy choose personal pyrotechnics as a job skill?"

"Some people do not handle rejection," Ziva muses.

"True enough," McGee says to no one, consequently heard by everyone.

At the next stop sign, at which Ziva performs a complete and thorough halt, Tony turns around in his seat, defying the limits of the seat belt. "Alright, what's the problem, probie?"

"It's just, you know…" The shrug features every burden carried. "Just stuff. And things."

"Stuff that wears pigtails and things in black make-up?"

What follows is either a request for gravy, the hunt for a baby or the admission of maybe.

Ziva, who turns to her front seat passenger as though draining suitable encouragement from her partner, aims for bewildering positivity. "A fine idea. You should go for it. After all, the world is your lobster."

Correction is tougher when she's so satisfied with herself. "The world, oh wearer of my ring, is your oyster."

"It is not _my_ oyster."

Tony tries, honestly he does. But language instruction didn't come with his degree. "You know, if the citizenship test required a working knowledge of clichés, you'd have failed."

"Seafood is no basis for failure. And you'll remember I passed."

"Good thing," Tony notes, "or I'd have had to marry you sooner."

"Which you imply is a bad thing?"

And it's a blessing that the roofless building lay before them. Undoubtedly derelict before the arson, it's a mess of a disaster now, not counting the crispy body surrounded by police tape. Not waiting for the answer, Ziva gets out and heads for the scorched front door, which hangs on one hinge and only barely. Tony follows, completing seven steps and thirty seconds of contemplation of his partner's rear when he hears a muffled yelling.

_ "Guys. Child locks!"_

Ziva tosses him the keys and a decision lay before him. Tempting. Begrudgingly, Tony returns to the vehicle, unlocks the backdoor and releases the prisoner.

"What's that about?"

"Safety first?" It's the best Tony can muster with eight uniforms staring them down. They're past their shift, held up by agents who will work the case only after working the car doors.

Out of Ziva's earshot, Tim asks, "Is she using a government sedan for play dates?"

Treading that water saves neither man and Tony opts for a shrug. Struggling to duck under the yellow tape, McGee's brain isn't on the job just yet.

"You think it's wrong to try again?"

"Hey, if there's room in the coffin," Tony slaps on the latex obnoxiously, "grab a pillow."

What McGee grabs is Tony's arm, interfering with the inspection of the corpse.

"I'm serious. What should I do?"

No one loves doling out advice as much as Tony, at least on the subjects of pizza toppings, Oscar winners and Mustang colors. But his romantic wisdom consists of crossing fingers, getting things wrong and evoking the right smile to gain pardon. It's served him well so far. But the man beside him, ignoring the interesting char that human skin can achieve at the correct temperature, is wearing the definition of forlorn.

"Maybe," Tony starts, then lets his favored pretense go in order to usher forth truth. "Maybe you shouldn't just walk up to Rule 12 and give it a shove like a first-time bully. Maybe you have to lay it out in front of the teacher."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning if you love her, don't let Rule 12 get back up."

"Even if Gibbs is watching?"

"Especially if Gibbs is watching." Another glance at his bride and her indelible hips. "It's called sacrifice. Look it up"

Matrimony must have improved Tony's sageness because McGee seems very nearly grateful. "Thanks, Tony," he says. "I think I get it now."

"Just don't 'get it' on an empty morgue slab."

"Just couldn't last, could it?" McGee stuffs hands into gloves, turns over the body and groans. Whether at the body or the imparted image was hard to tell. He stands when Palmer arrives, opening the body wagon to receive its passenger. Looking back, Tony finds Ziva stepping into the ruins and stands.

McGee doesn't move when Tony does and the senior agent looks back at the grinning younger man. "Morgue slab? Already gave Gibbs that particular heart attack, did you?"

"No," Tony offers his best affront, then steers Tim toward the scorched shell of the type place which that no longer factors into Tony's social life. "Ducky, actually. But it was worth it, probie. Totally worth it."

And because those hips aren't gone yet, he'll have to plan another dangerous excursion. At some undisclosed time between diapers and daycare. A first glance at the interior alerts him to the still-intact bar and he's thinking. And she sees him thinking. The sheltered wink says she's thinking too.

Because when they laid out Rule 12, it wasn't allowed back up.


	9. Cold Eggs

**The Third**

**9**

Sunday arrives in a caseless state. Which does not necessarily mean that a married couple can expect to entice a few private moments from the dawn. Not with the inconsiderate knocking and resultant wailing. The dressing is hurried, the curses are whispered. The boy, he of the feety pajamas and yawns bigger than his face, does not appreciate this version of waking, a condition solved by what arrives in the arms of the unexpected guest. Two distinct glares aimed in that vicinity fail to darken the mood of a woman who favors gifting stuffed baby animal skeletons and needs to share that disturbing love with the impressionable at seven am.

Intimacy is interrupted. The eggs suffer.

The giggling pair is left in the living room to babble about the merits of darkness in bunny form. Meanwhile breakfast is briskly beaten to prevent homicide. Satisfied tha the yellow fluff has been appropriately abused, Ziva introduces the mess to the pan with the kind of pour that suggests liquid can be slammed. Her jaw is cracking holes in the universe. Tony, in frustration that no shower can cure, listens to what he wills himself to view as a welcome friend and not the ruination of potential future babies.

It should again be noted that the eggs suffer. The kind that aren't edible.

Abby's favorite pastime is perusing the wedding album, balancing the book on one knee and a squirming Anthony on the other. Black-lined lips detail every moment of the unlikely event to the boy, whose main interest is pulling on dangling pigtails with slobber-slicked fingers.

"And this is when daddy considered smashing cake into mommy's face. But then he remembered that mommy could make it impossible for him to contribute to your conception."

"Less remembered than reminded," Tony grumbles as a portion of eggs is deposited on his plate. He won't mention that, at present, nothing else is getting conceived since Ziva's not _that_ sort of exhibitionist.

The high chair is readied and Abby gives up her hungry charge with a pout.

"But I was just getting to the good part. You know, when mommy and daddy kissed in the gazebo when no one was looking. Except the photographer, of course. And Gibbs. And me. And that woman who said she was related but couldn't say to whom. But it was a good kiss, audience or not."

That moment represents all that they weren't allowed to achieve today,. But these are things Tony tries desperately not to inform the cheerful, overall-wearing woman. McGee had sought encouragement for his romantic inclination and while Tony did not fail to supply in that regard, he mourns the too-light shove.

An occupied Abby is an Abby not here. Interrupting procreation.

Not that there's an agreement on that objective.

But Tony's a greedy man in the spirit of his covetous male ancestors. Now that the notion of family no longer produces night sweats and break-ups, there could be more bodies seated at this table, sharing these eggs, listening to aunty's tales which pitch tents near the border of truth. Despite their taxing schedule and regardless of logic, he wants another child. Perhaps several. He wants more diapers and onesies and snot and early attempts at backtalk. And giggles and crawling and first steps and that natural scent they've yet to bottle.

Wifely objections notwithstanding.

Previous discussions have given Tony the impression that Ziva is satisfied with their boy's status as an only child. His suggestion that she's dooming Anthony III to a childhood of potentially violent imaginary friends has failed to sway her. First-time parents, she reasons with entire highlighted books to back her up, should focus on one child at a time. But a boy needs a built-in friend. And more so since their time away from the kid is perpetually simultaneous, unless one partner opts to leave NCIS. Another discussion that never ends well.

She's wrong in all the ways she's right. But the want remains undiminished.

And the eggs grow cold. Colder. Frigid. Petrified.

"I know what you're thinking," she says, watching Abby feed a content toddler who no longer needs such service.

Tony follows her gaze. "That McGee had better move quick?"

Ziva shakes her head, removing the unused fork from his hand and running a finger across his lifeline. Her whisper is not meant for company. "Not yet."

"You think he should wait?"

"Not. Yet." Because she knows he knows. Biting his lip, Tony calls up nonchalance but falls apart before it answers.

"But eventually, right?" The hopefulness that seeps out is a thing to be hated.

"Why the hurry?"

There's no good response to that because she's no fan of his insecurities. Options being limited, he lets the Tony of old slip out in the form of a shrug and a mumbled denial.

"No hurry."

Leaning closer and doing nothing to erase this morning's original and brilliant plan, Ziva crooks a finger beneath Tony's chin, seeking attention that wavers for a moment. Because just over his wife's shoulder, Tony spies Abby trying not to look like she's watching them. And failing. But Ziva claims his focus with a deliberate lean. God bless tank tops.

"Not yet." Her kiss is chaste and deadlier than sex. "But soon."

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><p><strong><em>Fear not, I haven't forgotten about Gibbs. He shall make an appearance in the next chapter...<em>**


	10. The After

**The Third**

**10**

On behalf of the population, the federal agent had punched the man dead in the face. Which explains his current predicament.

Like old movies where an interrogation spotlight shines almost fatally upon the guilty, the Gibbs Glare, patent pending, narrows on Tony. Eerily reminiscent, in fact, of the look Tony had given his giggling son just this morning when the Cheerios were engaged in unauthorized flight testing. Of course, the audience appreciates every ticking second of Tony's discomfort, the evidence of which he tries to stifle by pointedly not fidgeting in his chair. The effect is spoiled by his desperately dodging eyes, scanning various quadrants of a fascinating carpet for fiber flaws. But the boss wants this conversation, in the way that an inquisition wants flaying.

"What do you think happens next, DiNozzo?"

The voice, something carved by whiskey and anchored by sawdust, bears indicators of profound restraint. Despite this, an element of triumph refuses to drown, buoying Tony's pride in an act steeped in integrity and, unfortunately, witnesses.

"I'm thinking awards ceremony?"

"Think again," Gibbs suggests.

"But there was applauding," Tony reminds the assembled naysayers. "And a form of paparazzi."

McGee snorts. "Teenagers with camera phones don't count."

Tony had intended to be generous with his thank you's when accepting the medal. That mental list now excommunicates everyone present.

Sadly, the off-button on Tony's brag controller is rusted and thus the following gem is mined;

"Give it a few minutes and it'll go viral."

The hand that slams on the desktop has, in preceding days, struck Tony's head a mere thrice. Five determined digits attached to an unforgiving palm left too far to be safe and too close to be stopped. Tony's own hand should, by rights, be shaking the mayor's.

"Will the internet," blue eyes ask, "make a federal agent decking a civilian _look_ better?"

Pride deflates. "No sir."

"Then we have a problem."

"Yes sir."

Gibbs notes the interested observers. "I didn't give you enough to do?"

McGee rises first, exiting to the lab with something that sounds suspiciously like '_black-eye dispenser'_ trailing behind him. The dark-haired woman with the shining diamond stays seated, coerced either by guilt or pity. She fiddles with the ring set, clearly measuring the wisdom of speech against the weight of sense. Tony is encouraged by this faithfulness right up until she stands, gathers records and with what he'd like to consider a hopeful glance, departs. She leaves and there are curses in his head that Tony prays his son won't learn until at least second grade.

Defenses are collected, shoved into a single sentence and dropped on the foot of the executioner.

"Had to do it, boss."

"The director might be understanding." Gibbs folds his arms across his chest, a sign that the guillotine blade has indeed been sharpened. "You'll have a harder time with me."

Can a man dedicated to the practice of divorce understand that Tony's kind of love comes with a fierceness that protects and defends whether it's welcomed or warranted? The sort of unabashed devotion that will know no end because it's been down all the other streets already. Can Gibbs sympathize with the requirement to jam the stake of _mine_ in the soil that defies public etiquette and lacks the appropriate permits? That his claim had been questioned with flippancy and had to be answered with a fist?

Some foreign shade of seriousness must have tripped over Tony's face because Gibbs backs down, backs off and backs up into McGee's chair. Thus seated, the boss takes the deep breath of the well and truly put-upon and waits. Waits for an explanation he knows Tony cannot help but supply if left to silence too long. Some people must shovel themselves up to their own necks in the verbal gap. And when it arrives, it does so in embarrassed mumbles that will hang, despite their heaviness, for possibly eons.

Because it will undoubtedly sound worse aloud than it already does in his head.

"The guy was one of those annoying gawkers trying to stare over the dead side of the police tape. Made sure we noticed him."

"By heckling?"

"In a way."

Gibbs squinted. "In _what _way?"

The fabric that manufacturers favor for cubicles is lacking pizzazz. And Tony knows this because scrutiny is being paid in an effort to avoid other objects, like steely eyes and deepening frowns. Tiger stripes, he's thinking. Or fluffy kittens. Or flowing lava, perhaps.

"Stalling makes a later night, makes a cranky kid, makes an suffering dad," Gibbs reminds the father who only recently detailed the bedtime ritual, complete with bulletpoints on the toddler manifesto, to the assemblage.

"He said," the first swing at it comes up short. "He said she'd look good pregnant with his spawn." The words are presented slowly because a fury reborn weighs down his tongue. "Said he'd like to lay her over the patrol car and… and calm wasn't happening."

Gibbs says nothing because he'd have to take a running start to hurdle that reason. Eyes turn warmer by fractions and there will be, Tony realizes, no discipline, no punishment. Before him is a man digesting what McGee had mistaken for jealousy. What Ziva had labeled testosterone. What God and the angels ought to trumpet as righteousness. What truth will call possessive.

"I saw her face and just…" there's no forgivable word for spitting at protocol and decency, "snapped."

The air turns leaden with the words and while no judgment appears forthcoming, there will be advice. Oh yes. Advice he will be forced to ponder the way a manic jumper must consider the quickened ground. And it is ordained that the line of suggestion Gibbs will present shall be plucked from the rack of The Rules. Their numbers have multiplied since Twelve went missing in action.

"I should say that during working hours, she's your partner first, wife second." Fingers are drummed in useless fashion. "But I can see it'll never be like that."

"Don't know how to make it otherwise."

"I get that. But answer me this, DiNozzo. Why are you still in that hole?"

This is the point when Tony thinks perhaps that conveniently fatal heart attack is tardy again. "Hole, boss?"

"The one you cover with twigs like that'll hold weight. And then you forget it's there and fall into the emptiness you've dug."

Exposure to high concentrations of unfinished boats must do this to a man.

"Not following."

"You fall into old ways faster than an addict.'"

Silence consumes the moment it takes for Tony to eyeball his backpack and consider an insubordinate dash. Keys are only inches away, a simple reach down and a quick escape...

"What I want to know," Gibbs muses to the happier audience of ceiling tiles, "is why you married her."

The question should injure some deep parts, but something in that stare, the one that got left out of his dad's DNA, bathes him in Because I Care, You Will Answer Me. But too many years have wedged themselves into the crease of Tony's spine. He can just about match that stare if he strains.

"Why, DiNozzo? So no one else could?"

"I love her."

"Her," Gibbs challenges. "Or the idea of her?"

It's almost humorous, since the _idea_ of her equals distant, unknowable, decidedly uncuddly ninja. "Her, boss."

"Just seems to me that embattled friends turned to legalized spouses awful quick."

"Our timing's not for the weak."

"That paper give you some momentary something that you have to deck people to resurrect? 'Cause I'm pretty sure she's never needed a security guard."

This he knows. It's been a flavor in his mouth that the toothbrush can't reach. She doesn't need him in the traditional sense, like a woman requiring the strength and shield of her man. Her heart, that is all Tony's been asked to guard and usually that duty is enough for him. None of this can he speak, however, not under the steady gaze of his mentor, evolutionary proof that man derived from the armadillo. An odd predicament, running out of words. Which appears to suit Gibbs fine.

The twenty-four hour building seems purposely quiet, taking sides against Tony. And as the brew of marital advice is stirred by a firm hand, Ducky walks past like a Hitchcock cameo, raincoat across one shoulder. Not unaccustomed to these standoffs, the older man waves an absent hand and lets the elevator steal Tony's last chance at distraction. Damn.

Gibbs settles further into a chair not made for lounging. The head is tilted and Tony has a fleeting sympathy for every fishbowl he's ever tapped.

"Wanna know what I think?" Gibbs asks.

Since '_do I have a choice_' is not on the bestseller-and-live list, Tony clamps down on his lips.

"You cancel each other out. Met someone whose level of grief and guilt equals yours." Standing, Gibbs moves to his desk, pokes around for glasses, gun and badge, then recalls his hostage and a half-finished opinion. "Like a one-legged boy meeting a one-armed girl."

Tony hooks the sigh and reels it in, knowing it would only add steam to the LJG train and possibly hours to this dissection. He'd like to perform legalized spousal acts with his one-armed metaphor before sunrise. Rising and securing his backpack is an attempt to divert continuance that fails since Gibbs is preparing to shove the analogy down Tony's throat.

"They get each other. What's missing is shared. Familiar. But still, never quite whole."

"Saying we're hopeless?"

"Saying there's only so many outsiders you can punch. Confidence would've let you block him out, not knock him out."

The conversation, in some kind of mercy, receives the nearly finished signal. The lights have dimmed in the course of the debate and night, the damned straggler, has decided to turn up. Of course, Gibbs will get the last word. He's like that. Tony can actually detect the special breath being drawn.

"Before I sand, I think about the after."


End file.
